the secret of my success

It's been going on all week.

On Monday I met up with The Perfect Fit.

We coffeed merrily for an hour.

When I went to kiss her goodbye, she seemed to hesitate for a moment.

It didn't stop me.

But I was nonplussed.

On Tuesday I rendezvoused with Goldener Oktober.

No kissing to be expected there.

Adoration from afar.
Nice and formal.

But by gadrey.

She was definitely keeping a measured distance.

On Wednesday it was Sofia Loren.

All southern Italian energy and charge and sensuality unless I'm imagining things.

Last week she fair kissed me into the end zone.

This week not a whit.

Bloody hell.

Once an accident.

Twice misfortune.

But three in a row?

Something's going on.

On Thursday it was the Ikon.

Well she's married.

I wouldn't be expecting too much.

I got nothing.

Friday, The Onion.

The Onion surely.

The Onion would never let me down.

After all these years.

She let me down alright.

As we were saying goodnight, I leaned forward.

I thought I saw horror in her eyes as she murmured: "See you next week," and hurried away through the rainswept streets.

I wandered Dublin.

Haunted and desolate.

Me.

Not the city.

I was the haunted and desolate one.

If you had seen me in these moments gentle travellers of the internet, you would have thought me a ragged cast out figure, tormented by unknown demons.

Looking very much like the Hyde side of Doctor Jekyll.

Back home I sat into the front room alone with my thoughts, my sheepdog and my hamster.

The door opened a crack.

My sister in law Jackie peered in.

"James," she cried with strange high enthusiasm. "Will you for God's sake cut down on the garlic!"